Canapés for the Kitties

by Marian Babson

  “Only you could give Dorian credit for meaning well,” Freddie said, shifting slightly to accommodate But-Known. “I must admit I’m not looking forward to this party. I keep remembering what happened at his last one.”

  “At least there won’t be a bonfire for anyone to fall into.”

  “There’s always the fireplace.” Freddie would not be reassured. “He’s sure to have a blazing fire in it.”

  The party went smoothly, however, helped by the fact that Jack Jackley was still unable to operate a camera. Unfortunately, he appeared to have developed a form of paranoia; he stood with his back against the wall, clutching a large drink he had poured from a fresh bottle, insisting on breaking the seal himself, and obviously intended nursing through the evening lest any other drink offered to him might be noxious.

  “Honestly, he makes me sick!” Karla came up to Lorinda and Freddie, eyes flashing. “He’s so afraid something’s going to happen to him. He didn’t even want to come tonight.”

  “Well, something did happen to him at the last party,” Freddie said. “You can see his point.”

  “If he hadn’t been so damned clumsy –” Karla gulped savagely at her drink. “And then he tries to pretend he’s not so stupid by claiming someone pushed him! Who’d want to? That’s what I asked him – and he couldn’t answer me.”

  Lorinda and Freddie stared thoughtfully into middle distance, no more anxious to answer the question than Jack had been, even though they were not in such a vulnerable position for reprisals.

  “Dorian’s parties are always so marvellous!” The uncritical voice at their elbows made them turn, and quick bright smiles spread across their faces. No author was going to dispute an issue with the proprietor of the town’s only bookshop. Jennifer Lane beamed back at them. “He’s certainly revitalized this town. He’s so full of wonderful ideas!”

  They all agreed automatically and with some relief. At least she was changing the subject. Not even Karla would continue her complaints in front of a third party who was so innocently sure that they were all one big happy family.

  “Gemma, feeling better?” Lorinda turned her bright social smile on Gemma Duquette, who was wandering past, clutching a glass of white wine.

  “Oh, yes, thank you.” Gemma joined the group gratefully. “I’m still being careful, though.” She raised her glass. “This can’t hurt me, I’m sure. I’d have had orange juice, but I’m afraid it’s just that little bit too acid for my stomach right now.”

  “Can’t be too careful,” Freddie agreed. “You had a nasty do. What was it, do you know?”

  “I wish I did. Probably some new virus going around.” Gemma flinched as Betty Alvin appeared beside them with a tray. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly dare!” She regarded the king prawns and spicy dip with horror. “It’s more than my life’s worth. I must be very careful, you know. I’m really still convalescent.”

  The others had no such inhibitions and rapidly depleted the tray. “I’ll get a refill,” Betty said reassuringly. “There’s plenty more out in the kitchen.”

  Perhaps there was, but the party was low on catering staff, Lorinda noticed. Poor Betty and Gordie were doing overtime ... again. Betty didn’t seem to mind, but Gordie appeared vaguely discontented. He hovered near Dorian, as though hoping for an introduction to the prosperous-looking strangers Dorian was being so attentive to that they had to be publishers. Poor Gordie. She wondered just what Dorian had promised him when he lured him into moving to Brimful Coffers and acting as general factotum, as well as his caretaking duties at Coffers Court.

  There were fewer Londoners at this party. Presumably, now that the weather was worsening, with freezing conditions and even snow forecast for tonight, they preferred not to risk getting stranded in the country. They would undoubtedly be back in full force for any parties Dorian gave in the summer. There was, of course, a good sprinkling of townspeople.

  Plantagenet Sutton, as had become usual, had usurped the bar, leaving Dorian free for socializing. Bursts of ostentatiously coarse laughter were resounding from another corner where three males from London were obviously recounting the latest dirty jokes.

  A slight movement at waist level caught Lorinda’s eye, and she saw Clarice edging closer to the riotous group, anxious to be in on any jokes going around. Since everyone had been invited to the party, there had been no baby-sitter available and Rhylla had had to bring her along. It was more than possible that Rhylla would regret it – especially if Clarice picked up any of those jokes.

  Professor Borley appeared to be in a quandary, looking from group to group, nearly overcome by an embarrassment of riches. So many authors at his fingertips, as it were. It was a hard choice to make; he swerved toward Lorinda’s group, then detoured in response to something Plantagenet called to him. He went over to the bar and they conferred earnestly.

  Rhylla was trying to be nice to Jack Jackley, who did not appear to be appreciating her effort. He looked around restlessly and almost smiled.

  Rhylla followed his gaze, arriving at the source of his amusement just as a further shout of raucous laughter brought a nervous, slightly puzzled smile to Clarice’s face. Rhylla gasped and swooped across the room to snatch a protesting Clarice away from the circle of deeply embarrassed men who belatedly became aware of her presence.

  “Wha-at?” Freddie’s outraged squawk wrenched Lorinda’s attention back to the group.

  “Oh, yes.” Jennifer smiled nervously. “Hasn’t he mentioned it to you yet? I believe he’s going to announce it tonight. Just informally, of course. He’ll announce it again at a proper launch, with full media presence, once we have all the details finalized.”

  “I’ll finalize him!” Freddie muttered.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Karla had brightened. “It sounds like a really great idea to me.”

  “You’re not trying to work,” Freddie said.

  “I beg your pardon!” Karla drew herself up huffily. “I am working my butt off. Especially since Jack got home. I practically have to feed him half the time. He can’t even cut his meat, the way his hands are.” There was more annoyance than sympathy in her voice. It was clear that any help Jack got from his wife was reluctant and under protest.

  Freddie twitched her eyebrows and looked away.

  “It won’t be so bad,” Jennifer said. “It shouldn’t interfere with your work.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve missed something here,” Lorinda said softly to Freddie. “What are we talking about?”

  “I thought you were too calm.” Freddie did not bother to lower her voice. “The crux of the matter is that Dorian is planning to turn Brimful Coffers into a sort of Literary Disneyland-Cum-Zoo. With us as unpaid employees and captive exhibits.”

  “Wha-at?” Lorinda found herself echoing Freddie’s earlier incredulous gasp.

  “No, no, nothing of the sort. Freddie exaggerates.” Jennifer sent Freddie an impatient glance. “Honestly, the schedule won’t be intrusive and you needn’t participate in any of the events unless you want to. There’ll be the usual signings at the bookshop as your new books are published – you’d do that anyway. And giving the occasional talk to tours passing through and perhaps joining them for drinks and dinner.”

  “What tours?” Freddie asked ominously.

  “Oh, just fans.” Jennifer shied back nervously. “People who really admire you and your works. They’ll be small tours and only stay in town a night or two before going on to take in the usual historical sites and have a few days in London ... and meet other authors in other places ...” She trailed off, perhaps sensing that her audience was not as enthusiastic as she was.

  “Did she just say what I thought she said?” Unnoticed, Macho had joined the group.

  “You heard.” Freddie was grim.

  “Did you just arrive?” Lorinda tried for a more social tone.

  “I had to ... settle Roscoe first,” Macho said.

  “Isn’t he well?”

  “He’s fine – and he’s g
oing to stay that way.” Macho’s mouth tightened. “What I want to know is what’s going on here?”

  “We’re just finding out ourselves,” Lorinda said.

  “Treachery!” Freddie glowered at Jennifer. “Sheer outright treachery. We’ve been set up!”

  “Oh, no, you mustn’t think that.” Jennifer was sinking under the combined weight of their disapproval. “I – I’ve explained it badly, that’s all. When Dorian makes his announcement, it will all be much clearer.”

  “Dorian ...” Macho shifted his brooding gaze to their debonair host, now raising his glass as though in a toast to his companions. “The plot thickens.”

  “Raising the time-honoured question: since when have you lisped?” Freddie also turned to glare at Dorian.

  “Gad! He’ll be running school parties around next!”

  “No, no, not for quite a long time yet, not until we really ... get ... going.” Jennifer faltered to a stop as she realized she was making things worse.

  “I promise you –” She tried again. “It won’t interfere with your work. You can just give them a talk at the library and later their teachers will take them on a walk around town. They’ll enjoy seeing where all the real authors live.”

  “Maybe they’ll enjoy seeing all the FOR SALE signs,” Freddie snarled.

  “Oh, no! You can’t do that! Please!” Jennifer was stricken. “Hilda Saint has already taken out a second mortgage to enlarge and refurbish her guest house. And I’ve doubled my inventory in preparation.” She was close to tears.

  “I may kill him,” Macho said thoughtfully.

  “You’ll have to get in line,” Freddie snapped.

  Lorinda found herself too deep in gloom to say anything. It was all very well for Freddie to talk glibly of selling, but who could bear to go through all that upheaval again? Apart from which, who was going to buy? The housing market was currently deader than the victims in their books. That was why they had been able to buy the desirable residences in Brimful Coffers at favourable prices. The market might recover in time, but right now there was unlikely to be anyone interested in buying.

  “I don’t know what you’re all fussing about,” Karla said. “I think it’s a great idea. You English don’t understand about publicity and public relations. It’s not enough just to write the books anymore – you have to get out there and sell them!”

  “I’m willing to get out there,” Freddie said. “I’m just not willing to allow packs of strangers in here.”

  Karla looked exasperated as the others nodded agreement. “You’ve got to make some concessions,” she said. “Personally, I’ll be delighted to go along with any arrangements Jennifer and Dorian care to make. And so will Jack.”

  “Jack?” Jennifer looked somewhat less than enchanted at this assurance. “Er ... does he write under his own name?”

  “Not yet,” Karla said. “He’s concentrating on his photography right now.”

  He was concentrating on his drinking, actually. Jack and Plantagenet were behind the makeshift bar and seemed to have struck up an unholy alliance. Sniggering like schoolboys, they were lifting up the less popular bottles, scrutinizing the labels carefully and pouring dollops into an array of glasses lined up before them. They appeared to be trying to invent a new cocktail. The contents of some of the glasses had already acquired a lethal colour. Lorinda made a mental note to stick to the champagne.

  “Attention! Attention!” Dorian suddenly tapped the swizzle stick he affected against a bottle, calling them to order. “Attention, everyone!”

  The hubbub of conversation died down and faces turned toward him expectantly.

  “Here it comes,” Freddie muttered.

  “Some of you –” He frowned in their direction. “Some of you may think you already know what I’m going to say. But I think I may yet have a surprise in store for you.”

  “Make a change from his books.” Macho was muttering, too.

  “Shhh!” Karla hissed and moved away, virtuously distancing herself from her unruly companions. She turned her enraptured gaze on Dorian, ostentatiously giving him her full attention.

  “Crawler!” Freddie muttered.

  “Shhh!” Gemma moved away to join Karla. Jennifer looked as though she would like to, but the authors were part of her stock-in-trade and she was caught in the proverbial cleft stick.

  The bottles continued clinking at the bar, an occasional snicker also sounded. Jack and Plantagenet were having a wonderful time, perhaps a better time than anyone else at the party. Karla flicked a disapproving glance in their direction. Jack would undoubtedly hear more about this when she got him home.

  “Yes, well ... for those of you who are interested –” Dorian dismissed them. “And this is of great import to the real authors amongst us –”

  Jack raised his head and glared at Dorian; he considered that working with Karla made him an author, too. Gordie Crane flushed a deep red and set his tray down on the nearest table with a thud. Plantagenet Sutton seemed no less offended; presumably he felt that his two or three Christmas-stocking fillers – scarcely more than booklets copiously illustrated with whimsical drawings by his newspaper’s top cartoonist – about wine put him in the “real” author category.

  “We have an exciting year ahead of us ...” Dorian, happier now that he had managed to offend a few guests, went on to announce what they had already heard.

  Most of them. Rhylla, who had been kept fully occupied with Clarice and had not yet plugged into the gossip circuit, straightened abruptly. She looked over to Freddie, as though for confirmation, and her mouth tightened, her jaw jutted forward.

  “But what you may not have heard,” Dorian concluded, “is that our numbers are about to be swelled by yet another recruit to our happy colony. Unfortunately, she can’t be here tonight so that I can introduce her personally, but she will be with us in the course of the week, direct from her triumphal tour of Australia and New Zealand. I know you will all be delighted to welcome Ondine van Zeet into our midst.”

  A bottle crashed to the floor and shattered. Heads turned toward the bar, but Jack and Plantagenet were both standing motionless and expressionless. It was impossible to tell which of them had dropped the bottle.

  The audience began an automatic round of applause as they realized Dorian had finished his speech.

  “Who?” Unfortunately, Karla’s voice could still be heard.

  “Ondine van Zeet.” Dorian strolled over to join them. “Otherwise known as the Un-woman,” he added roguishly, anticipating her response.

  “The Un-woman?” Karla walked right into it. “You mean – ?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” he assured her. “You must know of her and her Un-books.” He waited and was not disappointed.

  “Un-books? You mean she isn’t really an author, either?”

  “Don’t be unfair,” Freddie said to Dorian. “Ondine was just starting to be published in the States when I left. There wasn’t the great storm of publicity she gets here – she’s just another author over there. It’s not surprising if Karla hasn’t caught up with her yet.”

  “Ah, yes,” Dorian said. “Ondine is very popular in Britain and the Commonwealth, but it sometimes takes the Americans a long time to catch up with writers who aren’t home-grown. As we all know to our cost.”

  “But all this Un stuff.” Karla frowned. “Even her name –”

  “That’s Ondine, actually. Although the Americans will probably change the spelling – they’re good at that – so as not to confuse the readers. Keep it all of a piece, all Uns together.”

  “You must have seen some of her titles.” Freddie took pity on Karla’s bewilderment. “Unspilt Blood ... Unloving Thoughts ...”

  “Undying Enmity,” Macho supplied. “Unwitting Accomplice ...”

  “Unlit Candles ...” Even Lorinda was able to come up with the titles. “Untruths ...”

  “Clever of her,” Dorian said. “It’s easier to keep up a series with titles featuring the s
ame prefix, rather than the same word, as so many of them do. Gives her a lot more flexibility.”

  “Terrible woman, terrible!” Plantagenet Sutton had come up behind them bearing a tray of his experimental cocktails.

  “Not even a proper crime writer. Three-quarters of her books are sloppy heavy-breathing romance. I’m surprised at you, Dorian, and not a little disappointed. What were you thinking of to allow her into our society?”

  “She’ll add a certain amount of lustre,” Dorian said. “The locals and the Colonials, will be impressed – and so will the Americans when she gets better known over there.”

  “I agree with Plantagenet.” Rhylla had joined them and it was turning into an indignation meeting. “We were all settled down quite well and now you’re bringing in a disruptive personality like her to join us.”

  “She’s not that bad,” Dorian placated. “Anyway, you know she spends most of her time out of the country. Now that she’s trying to break into the American market, she’ll be here even less. She’ll really just use the flat as a base of operations.”

  “What flat?” Freddie asked suspiciously.

  “She’s taking the last vacant flat in Coffers Court.” Dorian smiled uneasily as Gordie walked by him with a tray of canapés and a bitter glare. “Opposite Professor Borley – he’ll be glad to see her move in.”

  “Hey, this is a party!” Jack interrupted. “We can worry about this dame later. Let’s all have another drink now and relax and enjoy ourselves. Pass them round, Plan.”

  “Yes, yes.” The venomous glare should have told Jack that Plantagenet did not like his name being shortened, but Jack was oblivious, intent on mischief.

  “We have concocted cocktails in honour of your characters, dear friends,” Plantagenet announced, distributing glasses of strangely coloured liquids that might have been the result of some ancient alchemist’s failed experiments.

  “A cider-based creation for our beloved Miss Petunia and her siblings –” He extended a glass to Lorinda.

  “Thank you.” Lorinda took the poisonous yellow substance, smelling of sour lemon, with a wan smile and looked around for the nearest potted plant.